Angel of Life, Angel of Death
by Mr Sinister
Summary: In a very belated sequel to I Miss You, Jean Grey discovers the full horror of her new vampiric existence... and finds she likes it.


**__**

**_Angel of Life,_**

**_Angel of Death_**

   Jean Grey ran. 

   She ran – she _fled – because she was so ashamed at what she had become, what she had sunk to, that she could no longer stay in the mansion with her friends. And more to the point, she fled because the blood of her husband streaked her chin. Her sharp fangs had scratched his flesh and drawn her husband's sweet-smelling lifeblood from his veins, and God help her she had wanted to take more of it. She would have turned him into a vampire just like she was, made him drink her blood as she drank his, and she would have killed him if he'd refused – and then fed on his blood anyway._

   And so she ran, tears blurring her vision as she felt the cold, sterile light of the moon bathing her in its radiance. She didn't know where she was going, but something seemed to be calling her. She felt a hot stinging at the base of her skull, telling her to go towards the city, and she found it irresistible, despite her agitated state. Besides which, she knew she had no home now, so it was better than nothing. She ran towards the city, her supernatural strength and speed making the distance seem less than it actually was. One of the ironies of her current condition was that, despite her shame and disgust at what she was (and at how she had allowed herself to fall so far), she actually felt better now than she ever had before. Her muscles allowed her to lift far more than she had ever been capable of when she was… alive… and her mutant powers weren't even necessary, most of the time. Before Dracula, she'd have preferred to fly in order to cover distances like this, but now? This was child's play. She could have done this in her sleep.

   As she accelerated, feeling the irresistible pull of whatever it was that was calling her, Jean felt her mood lift, just a little. There was still an aching emptiness in the centre of her unbeating heart, but she boxed it away, pushing it down into the rear of her mind. She found the will to smile, baring her nascent fangs and feeling the wind whip around her face.

   _I will__ make the best of this, she told herself resolutely, ignoring the burning pain of loss that she could still feel Scott feeling. __Goodbye, Scott. I hope you forgive me._

   The Village was alive with people, so it was easy for Jean to lose herself in their thronging mass. She found that she could sense each and every one of them, yet not telepathically. There was something else in them that she could feel, but she couldn't put her finger on it. It felt almost like the stinging feeling she'd felt earlier, but far less sharp. It pulsed with life now, rhythmically lapping against her mind and senses. She could also smell the humans' bodies, taste their sweat and perfume. She supposed that that was how Logan had always seen the world, and it struck a chord with her. 

   She wandered through the streets until she found a bar that was suitably busy, and she walked up to the door, where a burly man with an earpiece and a sharp black suit was standing with his arms folded. Jean walked up to him and smiled, running her red-painted nail down his chest. "Evening, miss," he said, touching his brow with a thick finger. 

   "Well, hello," Jean said, before she even realised what she was doing – as if the words were recited by something else residing in her skull. "Lookin' good there, handsome." She winked, and immediately felt the man's mood lift a few dozen notches. She decided to prolong that feeling a little, so, drawing herself close to him, she hooked her leg around his and kissed him roughly on the mouth. "See you later, maybe?" 

   "Uh… I guess so," the man said, breathless.

   "Good," she replied huskily, tracing a finger down his chest. "I look forward to it."

   Moving past him, into the busy main area of the bar, Jean walked up to the barkeep, enjoying the lascivious stares she was getting from men, and the envious glances she was getting from women. The conflicting emotions created an enjoyable contrast in her mind, and she flipped her slightly-mussed hair back between her shoulder blades, licking her already-moistened lips before she took up residence on a bar stool.

   "Hi, there," the barkeep said cheerfully. "Nice night tonight, huh? What can I get you?"

   "Oh, a vodka tonic, please," Jean purred, fluttering her eyelashes at the barman. She wasn't sure where this whole sex-kitten act was coming from all of a sudden, or even what she was using it for, but it seemed entirely natural, somehow. She decided to see where it got her. "And perhaps you could tell me your name? I'm Jean."

   "I'm Frank, Jean," the barman replied, before handing her her drink. "Well, Francis, really, but I like Frank better. Nice to meet you."

   "Nice to meet you too," Jean said, with at least a germ of truthfulness, taking a sip from her drink and savouring the flavour of the liquor for a moment or two. "I like Frank better, too, by the way. I think Francis sounds like a painter's name, don't you?"

   Frank laughed. "If only, miss. Maybe that way I could get out of working here."

   Jean feigned surprise. She'd felt the man's dissatisfaction even through his cheerful façade, and it was refreshing for a human to actually bare their emotions. "You don't like being a barman?" she asked redundantly.

   "Not much, no," Frank said, dejectedly. "I got this job a few months back. I really thought I'd end up like Tom Cruise in _Cocktail, you know? Getting all the girls with my amazing drinks-mixing skills, and getting my own happy ending. Guess it didn't quite turn out that way."_

   "I don't think you need to rely on your drinks-mixing skills to get women," Jean replied, her emerald eyes filling with fire. "You're a good-looking man. Why not trade off that?"

   Frank raised his eyebrows. "With my salary? Forget about it."

   "You'd be surprised," Jean said. "Most women don't care about money. I don't."

   "Yeah, but with all due respect, miss, you aren't 'most women'," Frank told her, a sour expression blanketing his face. "My last two girlfriends quit on me because I didn't get out this place quick enough for them."

   "Well, you obviously weren't right for them, were you?" Jean said, before taking another sip of her drink and reaching across the bar's surface to grab a handful of the peanuts that were situated in a small bowl. She dropped the whole handful into her mouth at once, enjoying the way the salty flavour sat on her tongue. It wasn't the salty flavour she wanted, but it would have to do for now, until she could find something – anything – to feed on. "Why don't you tell me," she began slowly, "what you think a woman's best qualities are? I'm always interested to hear different men's opinions on that."

   Frank scratched his temple and looked thoughtful for a moment or two before he said "A woman's best qualities, huh? Well, I guess you always have that great talent for being peacemakers. I've never seen an argument that can't be solved by a woman's touch."

   "Ooh," Jean cooed. "Good start. What else?"

   "Common sense," Frank said, snapping his fingers. "Women always seem to have more common sense than men."

   "You're just saying that," Jean said, carefully playing off the man's ego with a sly smile. "I bet you don't really mean it."   

   "No, I really mean that," Frank exclaimed, shaking his head. "My mom had more common sense than me or my dad combined. We'd have blown the house up if it hadn't been for her."

   "You sound like my husband," Jean said, smiling ruefully. "He's a great soldier, but give him a pickle jar or a toaster and he has no idea. He has to ask me to fix everything."

   Immediately she felt a flash of disappointment from Frank's mind. Oh, she had him now. 

   _Perfect._

   "You're… you're married?" Frank asked, tinges of that disappointment colouring his speech.

   "For the moment," Jean replied, in such a way as to ramp up Frank's obvious desire for her another few notches. "I just split up with him, for good. 'Irreconcilable differences,' I think they call it." She shrugged. "He was my first love. We'd known each other since high school, and we always used to think that we were going to be together forever. We even spent some time raising his son from his first marriage, and we grew closer because of that. You'd think that that would stop me from… from having an affair, but I guess not." Gulping back the last of her vodka, Jean sighed. She dropped her head slightly, rubbing at her eyes. She could feel Frank's concern for her override his sexual interest, and waited for him to open his mouth to express that concern.

   "Are you… all right?" he asked, right on cue. "Should I call you a taxi, take you home?"

   "I don't have a home," Jean said, truthfully. "I walked out of my _husband's home this evening. I don't want to go back."_

   "All right, look," Frank began hesitantly, "I get off work in a couple hours. Come back to my place and you can crash there until you get a place of your own." Jean made sure she looked shocked at that, even though that was precisely the kind of offer she'd been after.

   "Are you sure?" she said, injecting just the right amount of startled helplessness into her tone for it to sound realistic. "I mean, I wouldn't be imposing on you, would I?"

   "Nah, you'd be fine," he replied, "I sleep on the couch all the time, mostly 'cause I stay awake watching old movies on cable. One night more wouldn't make much difference to me. Come, on – what do you say?"

   Jean did her best to look reluctant. "Well… I suppose I shouldn't be so eager to go to a strange man's house and sleep in his bed, but… I really don't have much of a choice, do I?"

   Frank smiled, his face taking on a boyish aspect, and he patted her on the back of her hand. "Great. You won't regret this, I promise."

   Jean returned his smile and finished her drink in a single gulp. "I'm sure I won't."

*

   Frank led her to a small apartment block that was surrounded by coffee houses, art shops and various music stores, with people still milling around them even at this late hour. Jean glanced at her watch and saw it displaying midnight. Her stomach growled. Midnight and still no feed – no substantial one, anyway. She coughed and tried to ignore the burning in her guts, even as it crawled up her spine and gnawed at the base of her brain. She could feel what remained of her rational thought slipping slowly away, to be replaced by the mindless savagery of the vampire inside her. Dracula had warned her about this before he had bitten her, but she had ignored him, and bared her throat to him like one of his blood-whores. 

   Now she was beginning to understand what he had meant when he had told her that the hunger was sometimes almost too much to bear. It seared her body from the top of her scalp to the tips of her toes. It twisted her mind around like a corkscrew, told her to rip the inferior creature beside her to shreds and lick the torn pieces off her fingers, and she was barely holding it in.

   She supposed that it would go away once she had fed, at least for a while. But she was not sated yet, so the hunger remained. 

   "Hey, Jean, you okay?" Frank asked her, touching her on the arm and snapping her back to the real world. "We're here." He gestured towards the door in front of her, which led into a small, but personable apartment. Frank held out his hand and indicated that she go in before him. "After you," he said politely. "Let me take your coat…" She shrugged herself out of her long storm coat and handed it to him in a single fluid movement.

   "Thank you," she muttered, before slumping into one of the leather seats that was placed in what she supposed was what served as the lounge. 

   "You want a coffee?" Frank asked her. "I'm sure I got some round here, you know. Could brew you up a pot if you wanted me to."

   "No," Jean replied absently. She could feel that odd pulsing again. It was stronger this time, and now she could smell it, almost. She rose from her seat and followed the trail it seemed to be leaving. She wasn't surprised when it led right back to Frank, almost overpowering her with its potency.

   Almost in a trance, she pressed her body against his, tracing her tongue along the hot line of his throat, feeling the thumping pulse of life at his carotid as she did so. She lowered her mouth to his flesh in a kiss, a trail of light touches. 

   "Your skin's so cold…" Frank whispered, his hands finding hers.

   "Warm me up," Jean moaned. "Warm me up…"

   She felt her fangs extending themselves, sliding out past her lips, and she knew then that she could not deny her hunger any more. She bit down hard, feeling his hot lifeblood spurt onto her tongue.

   She'd never tasted anything so wonderful in her life. 

   Fastening her lips to the wound, she ignored his sudden thrashings and sucked. A torrent of hot blood filled her mouth, and she swallowed eagerly. She tried to take another mouthful, but Frank used her moment of blood-drunkenness to push her away, a hand going to his neck as fear blossomed in his eyes. Jean basked in it.

   "What the hell was that?" he asked, disbelief sounding in his mind as he saw her extended fangs. "What the hell are _you?"_

   Jean grinned bloodily, and cooed "I'm your worst nightmare. Or… I could be your best friend. It all depends on what you want me to be, Frank. I could be your death, or I could be your salvation. I could kill you, or I could make you like me. What would you like me to do?" As had happened before at the bar, Jean could feel these words spilling out of her, but she didn't know where they were coming from, or why she was saying them. She supposed that she would find out eventually, but right now she didn't care. She was hungry, and she needed to feed. One mouthful of blood wasn't nearly enough.

   Not nearly. 

   So she felt more than a tinge of excitement when Frank turned to run through the front door of his apartment. Moving after him, Jean _blurred, her superhuman speed augmented by her telekinesis, so that she stood in front of him once again. "No escape," she clucked testily, wagging her finger at him. "You made your choice, Frank. Now you have to take the consequences…"_

   He didn't struggle for very long after that.

*

   Jean lay in the blood-drenched sheets of Frank's bed, his limp, drained corpse lying beside her like a puppet with its strings cut. Her stomach was full, and she felt sleepy, like a baby after a heavy feed. Her limbs seemed heavy, as if they were filled with lead, but she didn't care about that. All she cared about was that she was no longer hungry, her need assuaged for the moment. She knew that this was the final step on her fall from grace, and far from being disgusted with herself, as she had been earlier that night, she revelled in it. She knew she'd probably feel different in the morning, when the more human aspects of her personality reasserted themselves. She knew she'd spend her first few waking hours agonising over what she'd done today.

   But that wouldn't matter when the hunger kicked in. The hunger would win then.

   The hunger always won.


End file.
